by Ginger Scott
I tap my finger on my head a few times, then ball my hand into a fist, and move it to my chest, pounding there softly. All of my pain—locked away in my head and my heart.
“These aren’t in your name,” Wes says, turning one of the bottles to the side, rolling it in between two fingers.
I lean my head sideways and look at the tiny print, trying to remember how that particular pill made me feel. Funny, I can’t even remember. But when I took them over the summer, I couldn’t get enough.
“Nope,” I answer, letting my gaze slide to his eyes. He pulls away from the bottles briefly, looking into me, and his hard swallow lets me know he understands.
“I haven’t bought in months,” I say, letting things fall out of focus, not wanting to look at my life so closely.
“Your dad doesn’t see them in here? Right…like…in the open?” Wes asks.
“He would have to care,” I say, reaching up and taking one of the bottles from his fingers. He grips for a second, but I shake my head, encouraging him to let go. I open the bottle and spill the four pills left into my palm, looking at them. So tiny. So potent. I tilt my hand and let them roll free into the toilet, and then I do the same with the other two bottles in his hand, flushing away my darkest days.
Those days weren’t so long ago. They were before Wes. And these pills—they aren’t the only ones hiding.
He leans back against the frame of the door, pushing his palm into his brow as if he has no idea what to do with me. I’ll make this easy.
“I’m good. You can head home. I’m going to crash soon or get sick, and no offense, but I don’t really want you here for either,” I say through quiet, humble, nervous laughter. I sit back down on the edge of the tub and survey my wounds, then look up to give Wes a tight smile. His mouth hasn’t ventured from the despondent line it came to rest in when he finally got me alone in the cab of his truck. “Really, I’m okay.”
He doesn’t look away. He stands there with his arms crossed as he inhales and exhales slowly through his nose. He doesn’t want to leave me, and that thought feels so good. If only he wanted to stay because it’s me. But that’s not it. I could be anyone. He just feels…liable.
“You’re not my parent, and…” I hold up my hand before he jumps to the wrong conclusion, “what I mean is, don’t feel that you have to be responsible for me…for…any of this.”
He looks down at his feet, which are crossed at the ankles, and slowly starts to nod in acceptance. I so very badly want him to stay, but just as much I want him to go. I want him to go because I feel foolish. Because I was stupid. And because he isn’t hurt at all, and his face…god that face. It’s familiar. But my head is spinning, and I’m not sure what’s real and what isn’t.
I know what happened tonight though—that tumble from the moving truck—Kyle wouldn’t have come through unscathed. Nobody would have.
He did.
“Okay,” he says, bringing me out of my thoughts. My eyes meet his quickly, and I feel our brief connection in my chest, the rush of it sweeter than the whiskey and the thrill of hanging from the car. The way his gaze feels scares me. It feels…addictive.
“I’ll walk you out,” I say, standing up and faltering on my unsteady legs. Wes steps forward to catch me by the arm, and I suck in a hard breath, shutting my eyes because his touch brings the same flood of emotions.
“I know my way,” he says. My eyes are still closed but I can feel that his face is close to mine. I feel the slight breath from his words, his heat—the way the air changes just from him breathing it. I keep my eyes closed and suck in my lip, nodding slightly in concession.
“Come on. Where’s your room?” he asks, picking me back up in his arms without even asking me. I’ve been here so much tonight I feel used to it. It doesn’t make me feel weak at all, either. It makes me feel special. And that scares me too.
“Across the hall. It’s…it’s messy,” I say, cracking open one eye and cringing.
Wes chuckles, and the vibration hits my jaw where it rests on his chest. “My brothers and I share a room. We are messy. I swear…I won’t judge you,” he says, the left side of his mouth raised. There’s a short pause while he holds me here in my dim hallway, a stupid smirk on his face and our noses close enough to touch. The feeling, whatever it is, doesn’t last long, but I know we both noticed it. I did not imagine that. That was real.
Wes reaches with one hand to open my door, and steps inside without turning on my light. I’m relieved because I wasn’t kidding about the mess. I leave food in here because I don’t like leaving my room. I’m embarrassed enough as it is that he has to kick clothes and equipment out of the way to make a path to my bed, and when he sets me down on it, I have to push the pile of dirty clothes to the floor just to find my blanket. I push my hand under my pillow the second I feel the coolness of the sheets on my skin, and my fingers search for the feel of his shirt, only it’s not there…because I gave it back to him, and he gave it to McKenna. That thought kicks me in the gut.
“You’re sure you’ll be all right?”
“I’m sure,” I say through a heavy sigh.
“Okay, I’ll lock your door from the inside when I go,” he says.
“’Kay,” I breathe out, my body already succumbing to the pull of exhaustion. My world is spinning a little, so I let the sleep drag me in, not wanting to feel anything bad until the morning. I hear my door begin to close, though, and I manage to wake myself enough to see Wes before he leaves. “Hey, Wes?”
“Yeah?” He rests his head against the side of my door, and I’m grateful this is the last thing I’m going to see tonight. The look on his face right now is sweet, and it’s only mine.
“Thank you,” I say, my eyes as wide as I can hold them. It’s too dark to see the blue in his, but I know it’s there.
All he does is smile, but it’s enough. He gently shuts my door, and seconds later I hear the sound of the front one close followed by the start of his engine. My phone buzzes in my pocket shortly after, and I fumble awkwardly, trying to make my hands work well enough to find it. My father’s home, so I know it isn’t him, but Taryn’s probably worried.
I finally pull it from my pocket and bring it in front of my face just as I hear Wes pull away. The text is from him.
You really scared me tonight. And not because I was afraid someone was going to get hurt. I was afraid YOU were going to get hurt.
His words are powerful and sad, and I cry almost immediately. My heart also soars. Maybe it shouldn’t, and it’s probably selfish that it does, but it does. I clutch my phone in my hand and think of what to type back, but the pull of sleep is strong, so before I succumb, I simply write I’m sorry. I won’t promise that I won’t scare him again, but I do vow to myself that I will try. I will try because I don’t care about much anymore, but I care about Wes. And I don’t want him to be afraid.
Six
My body is going to be a painful reminder of stupid decisions for a few weeks. The gash on my elbow is deep; the blood soaked through the bandages overnight, leaving me with a dried and hardened cast of my own making around my arm. I showered with the bandages on, letting the water melt them away rather than peeling them off and risking opening up wounds. Things are going to be raw no matter how I look at it though, and I am going to need something better than ankle wrap to heal.
I put on a loose sweatshirt and my running pants and pull my wet hair through my favorite Giants ball cap so I can walk to the drug store a mile or two away. Normally, I’d call Kyle or Taryn to take me, but I wasn’t ready to face either of them, for different reasons. I’m pretty sure they’re okay having a little space from me too.
I’m too sore to run. My overzealous workout from the day before has left my legs feeling weak, and my two-man tumble from the moving car took care of anything that didn’t hurt. So I walk. I walk slowly. In an hour, I get to the store and spend the last twenty that my grandmother sent me for my birthday over the summer on real gauze, ointment for my cuts
, a king-sized Reese’s pack, and a thank you card. I borrow the pen at the counter to write a short note to Wes, then lick the envelope closed while I walk back into our neighborhood, this time counting until I see Sycamore Street—Wes’s street.
I did my best to commit it to memory last night. Somehow just knowing where he lives feels better. It makes him less of a mystery, but it makes me more curious all the same. I woke up thinking about what he did, the text he sent and the fact that he walked away unscathed. I’m not stupid enough to think that superheroes are anything real, but Wes…he makes a mighty good argument.
The closer I get to his house, the more I start to think that coming here in the first place is a tremendously bad idea. I’m a driveway-length away, and I have time to bail, but before my brain sends the run signal to my feet, TK stands up from the bed of the truck, a bucket in one hand and a washrag in the other, soap dripping over the side.
“Hey! Look who’s up and walking today. I do believe it’s the dead!” His laugh is raspy as he sets his cleaning supplies on the tailgate of the truck and hops down next to me, shaking the water and suds from his arms before pulling me into a tight hug I don’t see coming. I stand there awkwardly and let him hold me for a few seconds, my hands clutching my pathetic thank you card and quickly-melting chocolate and peanut-butter candy.
“Hey…uh…yeah,” I say, looking at my feet as we pull apart. “So…I’m sorry for what you guys had to deal with…yesterday—”
“Stop,” he interrupts me, swinging his hand toward me and brushing my arm. I look up at him, squinting from the glare of the high-noon sun. He’s smiling softly, and it’s almost making me feel worse. I think I’d prefer if he were just pissed at me. He’s not though. “We’re just glad you’re okay. You talk to Taryn yet today?”
I shake my head no and let my eyes fall back down to the comfort of my running shoes with a hole in the toe.
“You should call her. She was pretty upset last night. Not…not at you. More, for you, if that makes sense?” He’s looking right at me when I tilt my head up, and I offer a barely-there smile and nod.
“I’ll call her tonight. If you talk to her, just tell her I’m okay,” I say.
TK nods in return, then gives his attention back to the bucket of water on the truck, pulling it to the ground now and kneeling to wash the tire rims. There’s mud crusted everywhere.
“That from last night?” I ask.
TK tilts his head up with a slight laugh before answering. “Yeah, that was as close to off-roading as this truck’s ever been. It’s sixteen years old. I’m kind of shocked it held up.”
“Sorry,” I say. He just waves a hand at me and goes back to work on the wheel. I watch for a few minutes, glancing toward his house every so often, nervous to ask if Wes is home. I feel like practicing talking with TK is good for me, so I set my things down in the plastic bag from the store and reach into the bucket for another rag, moving to the front wheel to begin scrubbing.
“You don’t need to do that,” he chuckles.
“I want to,” I say, my sore arm no match for the clod of caked-on mud deep inside the rim grooves. I do a decent job, but save the tough cleaning for TK. “You three share this thing?”
“Yeah, it usually works out because we’re going to the same place. We try to respect one another and not take it out for long if we know one of the other guys has plans or needs to go somewhere. And we can take our mom or dad’s cars if we really need to. They work so much, though, that their cars aren’t always home.”
“That’s cool. It must be nice to have two brothers, to grow up like that. Have you all always been close?” I’m fishing now because I’m so hungry to know more about Wes—and TK and Levi seem to be deeply woven into his life.
“Yeah, we’ve always been tight. We were adopted around the same time, when we were like nine or so,” he says.
I pause and think about his answer. Nine. That would be about the age Christopher would have turned.
“You guys ever fight?” I ask. I wait a few seconds for an answer, and I start to think he didn’t hear me, so I begin to ask again. My words are stopped cold by the blast of water that hits me from behind, soaking through my pants and shirt in an instant.
“We like water fights, Joss. And you have just been christened,” Levi is yelling, poised with the hose behind me, the end capped in a sprayer that gives him precision accuracy and makes the water sting when it hits me.
“You shit!” I yell, dunking my rag in the soapy water and throwing it at him. It hits him with a thud in the chest, but he laughs it off, spraying at my legs as I scurry to the other side of the truck.
“Come on out, Joss. Nowhere for you to run,” TK says. I’m tucked behind one front tire to hide my legs, and I can hear them behind the other, the pressure of the water building up and making the hose buzz. I left my bucket on the other side of the truck, so I’m completely unarmed. But I am fast, even though my legs are on fire with every step. Still, I might be able to make it. I think about making a break for it when I feel a hand flatten on my soaking, wet back. I startle and turn to look Wes in the eyes, holding my tongue when he has a finger pressed to his lips. I’m sure he can feel my heartbeat against his hand through my spine.
“I’ll come out when you put down your weapon,” I say, holding my gaze on Wes and buying us time. His lip curls into a slight smirk on one side, and I suddenly want to kiss it.
“Yeah, that ain’t happenin’ sister. Might as well give up now,” Levi yells.
Wes’s hand finds mine without looking, and my breath catches at the feel of his fingers sliding through mine. He holds his finger against his lips again, and for a brief second, his eyes slip to my mouth then back up again.
Breathing is becoming harder.
Wes leads me several feet from the truck until we have a chance to make a break for it to the side of the house. He tugs my hand, encouraging me to run with him until we find the safety of the brick wall, our backs flat against it. His hand lets go, and I miss it. We both hear TK taunting me, under the assumption that I’m still where I was, and it makes both of our mouths pull into tight smiles, holding in laughter.
“There’s a hose on the other side. We have to go fast. Come on,” he whispers into my ear. I’m suddenly grateful that my arms are beaded with goosebumps from being wet and cold, because the shivers from his voice against my neck and ear would have the same effect, and I don’t want him seeing that.
Now in his backyard, we both run around to the other side of the house, unlooping the heavy hose from the hook anchored to the wall. Wes bends it, cutting off the water supply, and nods to me to turn the water on high. I do it and then step up next to him, our bodies touching on the sides. He’s wearing a torn tank top and sweatpants, and I can see his stomach and ribs through the large holes on the sides. I’m distracted by the thought of running my hand inside his shirt and feeling his tight body as we creep slowly behind his brothers, but I shake myself out of my fantasy quickly when Wes looks down at me and nods again.
“You better run, suckers!” I yell, just as Wes cuts the hose loose and lets the spray drench Levi and TK, who both run, leaving the second hose behind. I grab it quickly, and Wes and I each take on a brother, soaking them until they climb up into the back of the truck and grab the last bucket of soapy water and fling it at both of us.
Wes shakes his head fast, the wet ends spraying in all directions. Jesus holy hell does that boy look good all wet.
TK manages to pull the other end of my hose away from me, and I reach for it, but too late—he tugs it to his body quickly, pointing the spray right at me, soaking anything that was remotely close to dry. Wes comes to my rescue quickly, spraying his brother in the face until he has to turn and let go of the hose.
For the next ten minutes, we run around the driveway, using their truck for protection, and take turns spraying and laughing. This is what it must be like to grow up in a house full of brothers. The joy in my chest is intense, and my cheeks
hurt from smiling.
The water war finally breaks up when an older sedan pulls up next to the truck, and a heavyset man with a full mustache and beard steps out. He’s carrying a box under one arm as he moves around the front of his car and eyes the boys’ truck.
“You know, the cleaning thing only works if you actually get the water on the truck right?” he says, teasingly, quirking one eyebrow at Wes.
I’m standing behind the truck with my arms folded over the bed when he notices me. The man’s lips grin, and he glances over at Wes’s brothers.
“Well she’s too pretty for you hooligans. Anyone want to fill me in on our guest?” He hands the box to Wes, then dusts his hands against his belly, wiping away dust and dirt from whatever he was carrying.
“This is Joss. She’s coach’s daughter,” Levi answers. Wes busies himself with the box, letting his brother’s answer stand on its own. I don’t know why, but I want him to say more, to make me…more. I’m not coach’s daughter—I’m something to Wes. I have to be.
“Nice to meet you, Joss. You stayin’ for lunch?” he asks, pulling his glasses to the tip of his nose and looking at me over the rims.
“Oh, no…it’s okay. I was just stopping by,” I say, remembering my lame card and chocolate, which is probably both drenched and melted in the driveway.
“You should stay,” Wes says, not looking away from the box. His shoulders are stiff, and the fact that he’s refusing to look at me almost means more than if he did. My lip pulls up into a smile against my will, and my tummy goes all butterfly gooey. I hate it. I love it.
“Okay. Uhm…yeah, sure. Thanks,” I say, smiling and nodding to the man. I still don’t know his name, but I’m too awkward to ask, and I’m pretty sure my bra is outlined through the shirt I’m wearing.
